


Never Weather-Beaten Saile

by margdean56



Series: Tower Mountain/New Hope stories [13]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: Gen, Hidden Valley II, Hostage Crisis, New Hope, Peysol, nature of elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pneumonia is sometimes called "the old man's friend."  Held hostage, along with others of the New Hope Elders, to extract food supplies for the second Hidden Valley settlement, will Peysol end up welcoming his old nemesis?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Weather-Beaten Saile

_Never weather-beaten Saile_  
 _More willing bent to shore,_  
 _Never tyred Pilgrims limbs_  
 _Affected slumber more_  
 _Than my wearied spright now longs_  
 _To flye out of my troubled brest._

—Thomas Campian

 

**NH 227**

"Can't you bring his fever down at all?"

The small, wiry healer called Lodestar shook his head wearily. "I could. If I wanted to let his lungs clog up again. Listen to me, Stormrider." He used Doleera's title, perhaps out of respect, though it sounded as if the respect was beginning to wear thin. "Trying to heal a disease, especially one as far advanced as this—" He paused meaningly, but Doleera didn't rise to the bait. They'd had this out before: how Peysol had concealed his condition, why no healer had been summoned till now. "—well, it isn't as straightforward as fixing a sword cut or a broken leg. The whole body is affected in all sorts of ways. You have to keep them in balance if you want to do any good. Fever's actually a weapon the body uses to fight sickness—only problem is, a lot of times it doesn't know where to stop. Right now..." He laid light fingertips on his patient's pale forehead, gauging the heat that radiated from it. "...it's bad, but not likely to do permanent damage yet. This..." He nodded to where his other hand lay on the stricken elf's laboring chest. "...is more important if we want to keep him alive." His mouth tightened, and he added in a lower voice, "He's not helping a whole lot, either."

_He's just waiting to die,_ thought Nalkor from his seat in the corner of the room. Upon his arrival, Lodestar had practically bullied Doleera into fetching rockshapers to turn several of the hostages' cells into a sickroom that would, as he put it, "give him room to breathe." The sight of the diminutive healer snapping out orders would almost have been funny if the circumstances weren't so grave. Most of the hostages who were permitted, who did not have duties elsewhere, were gathered here for what comfort each other's company could give them. Nalkor himself had only recently recovered far enough from his ordeal at Beliel's hands to be able to get out of bed. While everyone worried about him, Nalkor thought bitterly, Peysol's worsening illness had gone unnoticed until it was too late to arrest it. _And now he's not fighting anymore ... if he ever did._ The notion was not surprising. Peysol had never been a warrior. Leravie might have given him a reason to live in captivity, not to mention that Peysol's lifemate would never have allowed his illness to progress this far. But Leravie was not here. Nor was Dove.

Doleera, visibly keeping a rein on her temper, said only, "Do what you can, healer," before stalking out. Lodestar barely nodded, turning his concentration back to his patient.

The night wore on. There was little conversation. Vallaree moved about the room like a shadow, heating breathe-easy and catmint over a brazier, setting a cup of restorative herbal brew by Lodestar's elbow. He thanked her with a nod, then said, "His fever is rising again. Some willow-bark might be—"

Just then Peysol's head moved on the pillow, and he murmured something. Vallaree, who was closest, let out a sharp gasp. Lodestar looked up. "Fever dream. What—?"

The murmur was louder this time, enough so that all present could hear it.

"...Tyaar?"

Lodestar glanced at Vallaree's white face, then at the other stricken faces about the room. His shoulders sagged. "Speaking to the dead?"

"Yes." That was Jand, in a bare whisper. No one voiced the thought, the proverb, that was in everyone's mind: _If you see or hear the dead in a fever dream, you're too close to them._

"...Tyaar? My lord...?"

 

_Tyaar? My lord?_

_Peysol. My poor friend._ The tall figure stood at his bedside, more distinct to Peysol's eyes than the living elves in the room, who were no more than shadows. Tyaar's face was the face he remembered from his youngest days, from the Old Settlement, and from the early years at the Tower; noble, proud, kindly. Older perhaps, marked in some indefinable way by the dark times, but moved beyond them into serenity. A face filled now with compassion. _It distresses me to see you like this._ One long, graceful hand beckoned to him. _Come._

It seemed to Peysol that he rose from his bed with as little effort as if he had been a glider. Indeed, as the room faded, he had the sensation of floating up into a region of shimmering blackness, following Tyaar. He was still dimly aware of his body far below, but he was distanced from its struggles.

Tyaar was facing him now, both hands held out. _You have suffered much, my friend. Will you end it? Come. Be healed. Be at peace. Be free from pain._

_Free?_

 

"Call him!"

Lodestar fairly snarled the words. His gray-green eyes flashed from one elf to the next. Their glance paused briefly on Jand, who seemed to be in a trance state, but sensing no positive action from that quarter, passed on in disgust. "You all say you're his friends. Well, someone had better prove that in sending or he is going to slip away between one breath and the next. He's practically gone now, and there's only so much I can do for an elf who's not particularly sure he wants to live!"

Vallaree stared at Peysol's still profile, then turned a pleading look on Crystel. "I don't know if I ... Crys? You did it for me."

"Maybe if we all—" Doreel started.

" ...free?" One whispered word, freighted with yearning, sent a shiver through the elves in the room.

Crystel's amber eyes shone with tears. "I don't know if we have the right," she said. "To bring him back to _this_?" To captivity. To despair. Perhaps Peysol, like Evanda and Geibryl before him, had found the only way of escape there was.

 

Peysol knew Tyaar could heal him, completely and forever, with a single touch. All he need do was take those shining hands, and all pain, weariness, and fear would be gone. The Palace had given Tyaar that power, perhaps. Though Tyaar had always held in his hands power over life and death.

_The Palace, yes. Take my hand and I will guide you. Friends and kin are there already, those who have gone before. You will be welcomed. There in the first, best home of elves..._

Home. It was what he longed for unceasingly, as the days wore on into moons and into years. It was what his whole soul cried out for, while gray walls hemmed him in and hope gradually faded of ever seeing it again. And he was tired, so tired.

He moved slowly toward Tyaar. _Home?_

Tyaar was sending images now. Myriad shimmering rainbow spires ... a place of beauty and tranquility ... the companionship of all the elfin spirits that had gone before ... never to be alone again...

But ... home?

Where was the sea? Where was Trell with his callused hands and wry humor? Where were the Greenwillow common room and his chair by the fire and the never depleted mending basket? The joyous dances at Festival time, the sweetness of voices raised in choral song... What Tyaar was showing him was not the place he had helped to build with heart and mind and hand. Those dearest to him—Leravie, Dove, his children, his parents, even, perhaps, the ancient elf who sat behind the walls of the Taiakaari compound (who had promised him, too, that he would not be left all alone)—were still in the world of the living. And living or dead, none of his human friends would be there ... ever. The Palace was beautiful, no doubt, and everything Tyaar said it was, but it was not home. Not for him. Not anymore.

Peysol backed away. _Oh no, my lord. No. I cannot come with you._

Tyaar arched an eyebrow, a wrenchingly familiar gesture. _Cannot? Or will not?_

Peysol paused a moment before answering. _Will not. Not while any hope remains of getting back to where I belong. It isn't the Palace._ A shiver ran through him as he considered what he was about to say. _If that is the “first, best home of elves” ... then perhaps I am not entirely an elf any longer._

Tyaar's face wore the inscrutable expression that meant he had just been presented with a novel idea, and did not yet know how it might fit into the orderly scheme of things he was used to. After a perceptible pause he nodded once, thoughtfulness in the lines around his eyes, a trace of sadness within them. _Then I can do no more to help you, my friend._

_You have helped me, my lord ... my friend. You have helped me to see what I could not before. You have kept me from making a choice I would have eternally regretted. For that I thank you._

A wry smile touched Tyaar's lips. _Do not thank me yet. You have a long struggle ahead of you, Peysol._ The ice-blue eyes twinkled. _Are you certain you will not change your mind? I was rather looking forward, I must confess, to taking advantage of your design sense once more._

Peysol actually found himself chuckling. _Come now, Tyaar. With Tascha at your side, do you really expect me to believe that you have any use for_ my _designs? If you are that desperate, however, I can always send Piet with a few suggestions..._

Tyaar pretended to consider this. _Well, if that is your best offer, Peysol... It would give you something to do during your convalescence, if naught else._ He sighed, gently letting go of the teasing mood. _It is likely to be a lengthy one. Farewell, Peysol. I dare not say, “until we meet again...”_

_Ah, Tyaar. Nobody lives forever. But I want to see if I can't go home first._

_Go then ... with my blessing, such as it is._

Then Tyaar was receding from him, and he was descending, falling into or out of reality, into life.

 

No one spoke after the single, plaintive word "...home?" escaped Peysol's lips. Then, a few moments later, the blond head moved back and forth on the pillow. "Oh, no, my lord, no." Lodestar tensed, as if alerted by some unseen signal. Heartbeats passed. Peysol took a deep, ragged breath, coughed rackingly, breathed again. His eyes slitted open, a momentary flash of blue. They fell shut again almost at once, but everyone could see the triumph in the healer's face.

"He's fighting! He's with us." Lodestar's hands reached out again to focus his magic. "Now there's a chance."


End file.
